


You are the Space that's in between every page and every chord

by Moonlights_Inkwell



Series: The Bard and Little Miss [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Mindless Fluff, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:21:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27084037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlights_Inkwell/pseuds/Moonlights_Inkwell
Summary: Rest and relaxation leads to Jaskier sharing poetry with you.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Reader
Series: The Bard and Little Miss [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1907491
Comments: 1
Kudos: 16





	You are the Space that's in between every page and every chord

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: A drabble that actually is drabble length-ish? That’s new. Also apologies for letting my degree seep into this fic with the poetry, the poem is Shakespeare's Sonnet 47, which is totally not period accurate but is a personal favourite of mine so sorry anyone who likes accuracy.  
> Title from The Horror and The Wild

"What are you reading?”   
You rest your chin on Jaskier's stomach, looking up at what little of his face is visible- the rest obscured by the thick bindings of an old brown book. Just his fringe, thick brows and focused eyes, your own eyebrow quirked in interest. The gold lettering across the book glints in the midsummer sun, near blinding in its intensity.   
It’s the first time you've had any rest in weeks, too busy with traveling and fighting, but the fighting has dried out in the last day or so, and your traveling companions are making the most of the situation. Normally, in times like this, you seek out a town where the bard can earn some coin and you and the Witcher can see if there are jobs you might take, and Geralt can find a brothel to try and alleviate any stresses but that isn’t an option. Truly, were you honest with yourself, you don’t miss the villages at all. Bustling, busy streets and loud taverns with damp smelling rooms seem like Hell, far too loud and crowded and more often than not full of people who sneer at you, spit at the Witcher and treat Jaskier like more Minstrel than poet. You much prefer this, the grassy knoll leading down to the river, where the air is sweet smelling and there is nothing but bird song in the place of shouting and jibes. The woods you travel are all too usually dark and threatening, but the rain has taken its leave and left nothing but blue skies and blistering heat in its place.   
It’s more comfortable than it has any right to be, really, laying on your stomach between the bard's legs, the sound of the babbling brook not a foot away from the two of you; not only because of how unduly soft the ground beneath you is, but how right it feels to be so close to your lover in such an intimate but strangely domestic way. You're always touching each other, but this is different somehow, to be between his legs while completely clothed. You tried to sit beside him at first, but Jaskier had parted his legs and rolled you into place before starting up his reading. He isn’t even touching you or paying you any mind, but it’s nice to, for once, not need words. The question is the first thing you’ve said in an hour or so, content in the space your lover has made for you to just watch the clouds roll overhead.   
Lover. It’s a weird term but fits well enough for the man who you kiss and sleep with yet aren’t courting... this, this feels like courting though, laying by flowers and just taking in time together. The Witcher is sat just by the lining of the woods, deep in his meditation, or whatever it is he does when he just sits, still as a statue and acting as if the world about him does not exist, but it’s easy to forget that he’s even there, especially when framed by the Bard's legs.   
“What, Dear Heart?” He asks distractedly, hands shifting so one can grasp the spine and the other can move down to cup your cheek gently. His eyes never leave the page. How he devours books is such a wonder to you,   
“What are you reading, Dandelion?” You repeat with a quiet chuckle, his thumb rubbing your cheek while the chill of his signet ring fellas you how you must be blushing at simple contact.   
“Some poetry, Little Miss.” Blue irises finally look up from the pages and he winks playfully at you, fingers shifting beneath your chin to tickle the skin there. “Nothing that would interest you, Dear Heart.”   
“Your poetry?”   
“Oh no. Not mine, someone from across the seas, nothing as good as mine, but it’s lovely none the less.” The joke makes you push his leg playfully, something he sniggers at. “Why so inquisitive, Dearest? You never usually care for what I read.”   
That is not entirely true: you have every interest in him reading, you just have no intention of reading the books themselves. You enjoy hearing stories and poems spoken rather than having them on paper, the teller always adds something new and exciting to stories, especially Jaskier. He speaks so well, grows so intense in his recounting that you listen enraptured for hours- it’s an art you’re sure, no less so than painting, to speak and speak well.   
“W... would you read one to me?”   
“You want me to- oh. Oh! Of course, of course.” He bumbles, thumbing through the pages he has already read. “One second. I saw a poem not too long ago, it made me think of you.” You're glad he's so intently flipping so he cannot see how moon-eyed you must be, staring up at him like he had said that he was gifting you a unicorn. He thinks of you when reading poetry, the thought alone makes your heart beat so fast that you’re sure it will beat out of your chest.   
“I can wait.” You say weakly, and he smiles, stopping suddenly.   
“Ah! Yes, here we go! No need to wait, I’ve Found it.” He calls out triumphantly, smile growing to a grin. It takes only a second for him to calm from his discovery, which he hides as him clearing his throat, then patting his chest gently. “Move up, you silly thing, so you can read along.” You blink, then nod and shuffle up to settle your head on his chest, eyes focusing on the sprawling script of the poem.   
“Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took, and each doth good turns now unto the other. When that mine eye is famished for a look, or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,  
With my love’s picture then my eye doth feast and to the painted banquet bids my heart. Another time mine eye is my heart’s guest, and in his thoughts of love doth share a part. So either by thy picture or my love, thyself away are present still with me;  
For thou no farther than my thoughts canst move, and I am still with them, and they with thee; or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight awakes my heart to heart’s and eye’s delight.”  
His voice is little more than a whisper in your ear, phantasmal and ethereal, both present and not in such a way that you strain to hear his husky tones and don't read the words as he requested. He speaks so gently, someone so used to performing his songs over loud crowds now breathing recited words to an audience of one. The words are beautiful to hear but you don’t quite understand what they mean, and turn your face to say as such to him only to meet Jaskier's own eyes, and then feel his chapped lips press to yours momentarily.   
“Did you like it then?” He asks.   
“It's pretty, Jask, but I don’t think I... understand it.”   
“Don’t worry, Dear Heart,” He says affectionately, resting the book beside him and winding an arm around you, lips pressing to your temple. Had you looked to the book, you would have seen it earmarked, with a tiny note by the title- For My Love.  
“I'll show you what it means one day.”


End file.
